


No Light, No Light

by c3mf



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c3mf/pseuds/c3mf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas wants to drink himself blind. Carolyn reminds him exactly why he shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/3282.html?thread=3455698#cmt3455698)
> 
>  
> 
> Title taken from Florence + The Machine

It was well after working hours when Douglas let himself in to the airfield’s not-quite-legal-but-always-well-stocked bar. The lock wasn’t much of a deterrent, not when he had the key. When he wanted something, he got it. And what he wanted right now was to drink himself blind.

Years of sobriety hadn’t dulled his propensity for alcohol, especially not now when his life was conspiring to implode all around him. Experience had taught him long ago that railing against circumstances did nothing but wear you down, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to. He wanted to rage and scream and break everything he touched. But he didn’t. (He could still hear Laura telling him how much he was like his father, how his mother may have catered to a drunk but she would be damned if she did. _“If you’re better than him, Douglas, then act it! I will do whatever you need me to, God help me, but I can’t save you.”_ )

Splintered fragments of his parents' horrific rows echoed in the back of his mind. Once you heard the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh you never forgot it. Somehow after that, it was always easier to spot the pain in others, the weakness. It was all there if you knew where to look, written in the hollowed-out eyes and the stiffened shoulders, in the clenched hands and tightened jaw in anticipation of a blow. It was in the hard-pressed way someone’s voice changed just before the tears broke.

He knew exactly where to look and he was tired of seeing that defeat staring back at him in the mirror every morning. Ignorance was bliss. Alcohol brought on ignorance. Thought was the enemy now. There was too much pressure building in him—too much visceral rage, too much despair… The dam was going to break soon enough. He just needed to tamp it all down. Drown out the world and he would be fine. Everything would be fine.

He scoured the shelves—no Talisker, more the pity, he’d sold it off last month—but there was still a bottle of Stolichnaya and that would do nicely. He grabbed the bottle and a glass—he wasn’t so far gone yet that he’d swig straight from the bottle. That would come later when he didn’t remember he had any dignity left.

He hadn’t even topped off his drink when the door banged open and Carolyn blustered in. She took two steps into the room before she realized the lights were on, two more before she realized that the someone who had left them on was still in attendance.

“Douglas,” she said, just short of incredulous. “What on earth are you doing here? You were supposed to have left hours ago.”

Hours he had spent behind the wheel of his Lexus in the deserted car park behind the portacabin, staring blankly at the documented dissolution of his entire life and warring with the overwhelming silence that had taken up residence in his skull.

But there was no need to answer, of course. Carolyn was clever and it was so obvious he doubted even Arthur could have missed the signs. Still, the denial sprang to his tongue immediately, well-practiced and so comfortingly familiar. His stomach lurched at the realization and he said nothing. He didn’t have to. Carolyn knew how to read the pain in people too.

She let out a long breath and tossed her coat over an empty barstool. “I take it this is about those papers you were served this afternoon? Then you might as well pour another. Misery loves company, and at this moment you are misery personified.”

Indignation bubbled up just as readily as the denial, sudden, sharp and white-hot. He didn’t need an audience for this, certainly not one who understood. That was a sharing of pain, mitigating it to lessen the blow. He didn’t want it diminished. He wanted it _gone_. Carolyn might have been comfortable displaying her scars, but he refused to lick his wounds in front of his _employer_ of all people. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

Carolyn, reader that she was, chose to ignore all the signs (signs he knew clearly telegraphed that he didn’t want her company, didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to do anything but drink until he forgot his own name). Instead, she plucked up his glass for herself and knocked it back.

“You’ll pay for what you drink,” she said as she poured herself another.

Indignation smoldered into quiet fury and he snapped. “I haven’t had any!”

“All the better, seeing as how recovering alcoholics shouldn’t imbibe.”

There were very few times in Douglas’s life that had ever rendered him speechless, but there simply weren’t any words. The silence in his head was too deep for that. But there was feeling, instantaneous and finely honed, rattling down his spine and all the way down to his fingertips until it pricked like needles under his skin. Too much, too tight… He curled his hands round the edge of the bar and squeezed until his knuckles ached. After a moment, the pressure eased enough for him to breathe without gritting his teeth.

When he spoke he was careful to keep his voice deceptively level. “What do you want, Carolyn?”

She only arched a brow at him. “A stiff drink. I would have thought that was obvious. What isn’t as clear is why _you’re_ here.”

The reason was currently sitting on the passenger seat of the Lexus where he’d left it because he hadn’t had anything on hand to burn it with.

“Spit it out, Douglas. Your ‘misery’ is only entertaining for so long. Then it’s just self-flagellation. Never a flattering trait, especially coming from someone as admittedly egotistic as you.”

He reached for the vodka with a wordless snarl, but Carolyn slid the bottle to the far side of the bar.

“Keep away, Carolyn? Honestly.” He didn’t bother to hide his derision. If she wanted to prod him, then he’d damn well bite back. He wasn’t above rising to bait, even when he saw the trap. “As if _that_ will stop me from drinking myself into a coma. This isn’t the only place to find alcohol in all of Fitton.”

Carolyn just shrugged. “And yet here you are.”

The implication hung in the air, insidious and razor-edged. _Don’t. Don’t don’t don’t…_

 

_(“If you ever loved me—No. Not me. If you love Miranda, even a fraction, just stop, Douglas. If you won’t do it for yourself, at least try for her. She deserves that much, don’t you think?”)_

 

He did try—God, he _did_. And it had worked. It hadn’t been easy—probably one of the most difficult things he’d ever done in his life, because denying his impulses had never been his strong suit. But the dog-eared photo he always kept tucked in his wallet served as a constant reminder and made the temptation bearable. He had a reason to stay sober.

Except now.

 

_(“I can’t do this anymore, Douglas. I… I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”_

_“You think I’ll fail.”_

_“I hope you don’t and I don’t want you to, you know that. …But you need more right now. More than I can give. You need to concentrate and put yourself first, Douglas. I know you won’t do that as long as Miranda and I are here. We’re only getting in the way. That’s not fair to you.”_

_“But you’re not—”_

_“And it’s not fair for you to use us as a crutch.”_

_“Laura… I… I love you.”_

_“I know you do.”_

_“Then stay. Please. We’ll make it work. I’ll be better, I swear. Whatever you want—”_

_“I don’t want anything, Douglas. You have to want this or it’s not going to work.”_

_“I do want this. I want to… Anything, Laura. I’ll do it. Just… Please.”)_

__

 

_Please, God, don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone._

His vision blurred at the edges, hot and tight. He didn’t need a mirror to see the fault lines in his defenses. He could feel every break give way under the pressure inside him. The walls were too old, too brittle and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop them from failing. The more he forced down the pain, the wider the fissures gaped. The breaking was inevitable.

“Laura’s asking for a divorce,” he said thickly, dropping heavily onto a bar stool.

“Ah. And this news is worth throwing away your sobriety, is it?”

“I was doing this for Miranda. How am I supposed to…?” He dropped his elbows onto the bar and dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots. His breath hitched and exhaled into mournful laughter. “Amazing, how one little life changes your entire world. For years, the only person I was ever concerned with was myself. What I wanted, what I didn’t. Money came and went, so did the women. I had it all and I never gave a damn. But then Miranda was born and… she’s everything. She. Is. _Everything_.” The grief writhed in his chest, trapped achingly behind his ribcage where he intended it to stay. He pressed his head down between his elbows, clutching desperately at the nape of his neck. “God,” he sobbed. “I can’t do this…”

“That’s right,” Carolyn said sharply. “You can’t.”

The condemnation cut deeper than he ever thought it would.

“You can’t,” she continued, “dissolve into some sniveling shell of a man who’s thrown in the towel because your daughter needs her father. You love her, don’t you?”

More than anything. She was his world. Before Miranda he had never understood when he had heard parents utter the same about their own children. Now, there was no other truth than that. Words had abandoned him, but he nodded weakly within the cage of his arms.

“Then keep it together. You’ll still see her. Don’t you dare give in when you still have that. You don’t have that right.”

Silence dragged between them, long and deep, broken only by the clink of glass, Carolyn’s furious mutterings, and Douglas’s shuddering breaths.

When Carolyn spoke again a long while later, it was with a breath of absolute disbelief. “Why are men such colossal idiots?”

The pain had run its course and eased into a deep, exhausting ache, leaving Douglas hollowed out and empty. He collected himself enough to shrug. “Genetic disposition?” he mumbled into the bar-top.

Carolyn made a derisive noise in the back of her throat. “Why you even thought this was an option…” She sighed. “It would have jeopardized any chance you have of seeing your daughter. Despite your… _eccentricities_ , Douglas, I have no doubt you’re a good father. The courts would have no grounds to terminate your parental rights now, but drown yourself in the bottom of a bottle and they might reconsider, and you’d only prove your wife was right.”

There was nothing for him to dispute. It was all true, every bit of it.

“I don’t hate Laura for this,” he said after a long minute. Hate was beyond him at this point. Hate involved too much invested energy. All he had left was bone-weary resignation.

“It would be easier if you did, though.”

“I don’t think it would.”

The sound of empty glass rattled despondently against the bar and the edge dulled from her words. “No… That kind of resentment only ever makes things worse. But the booze doesn’t help, I know that.” Carolyn paused for a moment, then sucked in a breath and plowed on before she could regret it. “I know this probably won’t mean a thing to you right now—especially with it coming from the other side—but it _does_ get better. Paltry the words may be but…”

“You have Arthur.” It wasn’t an accusation or a slight, just simple fact.

Carolyn nodded. “Because Gordon would have killed him otherwise. Accidentally. Intentionally...” She shrugged. “You are _not_ Gordon, Douglas. And Miranda isn’t Arthur.”

Douglas choked back a sharp, sudden laugh. “Thank God for that.”

“You love her,” she told him, her tone gentler than her had ever heard it before. “She knows. Your job is to make sure she never has reason to doubt it.”

He spared her a sidelong look from under his arms. “Keep up this kind of motivation and I might just start to believe you care.”

As quickly as it had appeared the glimpse of Carolyn’s maternal side vanished back under layers of carefully crafted scorn. “Of course I care, you idiot. If I let your monumental stupidity overcome you I’d be down one pilot, and while losing you might not be the worst thing to ever happen to MJN, I still need two pilots to meet CAA regulations. Besides,” she added. “Without you, it would just be Nigel. Captain he may be, but he leaves much to be desired.”

“Careful,” he warned, straightening up. “That’s deceptively close to flattery.”

“Oh, your narcissism is still intact. You’ll be fine.”

The dam was broken, but slowly bit by bit Douglas could feel the walls lining up again. It was a start. He snorted out a laugh and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Of course I will. You managed, after all.”

Rolling her eyes, Carolyn scooped up the Stolichnaya and her empty glass and deposited them back behind the bar.

For the first time since Douglas had been hired, he saw Carolyn’s scars as healing rather than the open wounds of a woman wronged. Maybe, just maybe, if he gave it enough time, his own scars would have a chance to heal too.


End file.
